Home
by gillasue345
Summary: Home was the smell of old spice and motor oil. It's the smell of whiskey spilled on the coffee table. Home is a soft leather jacket, its worn collar brushing against his cheek. Dean was his home. Complete for now, but may be continued. Reviews welcome and appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

"We're gonna get you cleaned up Cas," was all he said. Dean's voice was wrecked, raw.

Cas was numb to everything around him. But Dean was so gentle. Cas followed him meekly into the bunker's bathroom. Dean turned the tap, letting hot water fill the tub and then he turned to Cas. Slowly, he peeled away the filthy layers that Cas had arrived in. They didn't speak. He let Dean undress him and help him into the bathtub. The hot water against his skin broke through the numb state he'd been in since his fall. Cas sat in the tub, watching as the hot water crept up his vessel's—_his_—body.

Dean's touch was clinical and detached. He reached into his toiletry bag and pulled out a bar of soap. He dipped the soap into the water and placed it on the lip of the tub. Castiel watched the subway tile in front of him, only seeing Dean's actions through his peripherals. Steam was beginning to rise around him, and he felt the back of his neck start to sweat from the heat.

Dean crouched down in next to him. He grasped Cas' shoulders, pressing him down into the water until his head was completely submerged. But Cas forgot he needed to hold his breath. And when Dean pulled him quickly up, he couldn't help but cough up the water he'd sucked in.

"Shit, Cas. Sorry," Dean murmured, breaking the silence that had persisted between them since their first brief hug at the bunker door. Cas didn't respond.

Dean grabbed his washcloth and lathered it up with the crisp smelling soap he'd pulled out of his bag. Cas didn't take the cloth when Dean offered it up. Instead, he just continued to stare at the tile.

He knew he needed to snap out of this. To 'nut up' (to use one of Dean's preferred phrases) and deal with it. But he's spent however long it's been just _surviving_, doing whatever it takes to get to the bunker where he knew he'd be safe. Where he knew Dean would take care of him as he'd seen him do to countless others through the years.

He couldn't do any of that however. All he could do was stare at the way the fluorescent light shimmered off the white tiles, waves of light reflecting on their shiny surfaces. With a start, he realized he could no longer see the rainbow of color in the rays of light. He could no longer see that eighth color that no one had a name for.

In fact, plainly, he couldn't see. His human eyes were weak. The room disappeared into a blur of color anything further away than Dean's face, a mere foot and a half away. Dean was blurry around the edges, all color and no definition. It was one of many changes that he'd experienced in the weeks he'd spent so far as human.

So he didn't 'nut up;' he watched the blurry subway tiles as the steam rose around his head. He didn't move for the washcloth and Dean sighed, barely a whisper of sound, and began to methodically wipe away the layers of dirt and filth on Cas' body.

He started with his arms, holding each one in his right hand and slowly scrubbing until the pale skin shone through. He grabbed a wooden pick from his bag and cleaned underneath his fingernails. Cas just watched him as he methodically washed his chest and neck, and the spot behind his ear where the blood had caked into his hair and the soap burned against a scratch that had become infected. He closed his eyes when Dean's fingers carefully, _so_ carefully, brushed over the deep bruises where his wings no longer were.

Dean's fingers began to tremble against Castiel's temple as he scrubbed his hair with shampoo that smelled like home. Cas looked up then, and realized that Dean was crying. He reached out, his hand already pruning, and his thumb brushed away the tears from his cheeks. Dean looked down, one sob escaped before he bit his lip hard. Cas watched the blood well up beneath his teeth.

Then he hissed as the soap fell from his temple and into his eyes. Dean coughed and pushed Cas down until his head was under the faucet. The water was cold on the back of his head, cooling him off, spilling in rivulets down his back and over his chest.

Dean pulled him back and washed Cas' side, lathering up more soap onto his cloth and letting his hand trail over the protruding ribs on his left side. He needed to get Cas some food. He washed his kneecaps, and the small spaces between his toes. And Cas jerked away from the motion, for he was not worthy enough to have The Righteous Man wash his feet. But Dean persisted. There was one small spot behind his knee that tickled when the cloth wiped over it. A small sound that could have been a laugh escaped his lips. And Dean looked up from his careful ministrations, a smile almost grazed is full lips.

They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Dean helped Cas stand and with the gentlest touch Castiel had ever experienced, he washed his inner thighs and genitals. Then he turned him back around and let him sit again, this time facing the opposite wall.

He scrubbed Cas' other side until he was clean, his pale skin shining against the dull brown water. Then he pulled the tub's plug. Cas watched as the lukewarm water receded into the tub, leaving a dark ring of dirt and blood where the waterline had been.

Cas was suddenly cold.

Dean grabbed one of the soft hotel towels he'd swiped a few jobs back and softly passed it over Castiel's heavy wet hair.

He wiped away the tears on Cas' cheeks, and _when did he start crying anyway?_ He practically carried him out of the tub and proceeded to dry him off.

The floor tile was cold; the hexagonal tiles had deep ridges where the grout had turned to sand and faded away, and Cas could feel each ridge beneath his bone weary toes.

Dean wrapped the towel around Cas' waist and let him sit down on the toilet. He rummaged around in his toiletry bag once more, and pulled out a fresh razor and a small can of shaving cream that smelled so much like Cas' idea of home that he started shaking.

Dean lathered the cream over his face and took Cas' head in his hand. He shaved him slowly, methodically, his hands were steady, but Dean was unused to shaving someone else. He nicked Cas as he swiped over his jawline and Dean winced away, afraid that he'd hurt him.

"Sorry," he murmured, pressing against the small cut to stop the bleeding. Once finished, he wiped away the excess cream with the towel, and covered the cut with a small wedge of toilet paper.

He stood him up and placed Castiel's arm over his shoulder. He supported him as he walked down the long corridor to Dean's room.

The room was spotless, save for a pile of papers scattered across Dean's desk, remnants of a hastily aborted search for Castiel. A black leather journal rested atop the cluttered surface, and Cas caught a glimpse of Dean's handwriting, so much like his father's, so heartbreakingly beautiful that it made his entire body feel heavy.

In his hurry to reach Cas at the bunker door, Dean had left his record player on, and the needle was scratching against the vinyl, filling the room with white noise that made him ache for the companionship, the voices of his brothers and sisters. Dean pulled back the needle and restarted the album.

But that was all gone now. Cas was merely human. The other angels' grace would still be intact, he was sure of it. But Metatron had stolen his identity; he used to be an angel, but he was now a man. Only a man. Dean sat him down on his bed, ignoring the water droplets that fell onto his bedspread and walked over to his closet. He pulled out underwear, a t-shirt—his favorite— white and soft with a frayed collar, and a pair of sweatpants he'd picked up at Salvation Army or three bucks over Christmas. The pants were still soft.

Dean walked over to Castiel and pulled away the towel. Kneeling before him, Dean pulled his boxers on one leg at a time, then his sweatpants. He hitched them over his hips by gathering Cas to his chest and lifting in one motion, then he sat him back down.

Dean lifted Cas' arms, navigating his hands through the holes of his t-shirt and then his head. His hair was still wet and Dean picked up the towel to run through it.

Dean then pushed Cas down onto his memory foam mattress, gently placing his head against his only pillow. He pulled the covers down and over him, tucking him in like a burrito because Cas had started shaking. Then he sat down on top of the covers.

Cas was staring up at Dean, the light from the bedside table created a halo of light around his blurry features, and his green eyes were dark in the low light.

Cas didn't realize that he'd started crying until Dean wiped away a tear with his knuckle, brushing the back of his calloused hand over Cas' cheek.

Lowly, Dean started humming a song that Cas didn't know, but was familiar to him on some primal level. With a start, he realized that it was the song Dean heard as he fell asleep every night, and the song he sung to himself when Cas failed to stop his nightmare in time.

It was an old Beatles song, and his voice was soft and almost off key, but Cas found he liked it even better than the days and nights that his brothers and sisters would praise their father in song.

It was home. He was home. Here, with Dean's fingers tracing lines through his hair and Dean's voice, off key and cracking with some effort to hold back the tidal wave of relief, fear, pain, resentment and anger towards the fallen angel. Home was the smell of old spice and motor oil. It's the smell of whiskey spilled on the coffee table. Home is a soft leather jacket, its worn collar brushing against my cheek. Dean was his home. His family, his friend, his love.

With that realization, Cas found himself drifting towards unconsciousness, He reached out, placing arm around Dean's middle and pulled him down until Cas was spooning him above the covers.

Cas nestled his nose against the back of Dean's neck, breathing in the scent of home, and drifted off to sleep. He felt safe for the first time in weeks.

As soon as he was sure that Cas was asleep, Dean bent down placing the softest of kisses to Cas' temple.

He stood up, turning out the bedside lamp and exited his room, leaving the door open just a crack.

He wanted to hit something. Kick something. Anything. The need to destroy, to hurt something knocked the wind out of him and he began to run, tears falling down his cheeks.

He made it all the way to the shooting range before falling to his knees, great racking sobs tore from his throat and the sound of his cries reverberated off of the stone walls.

He looked up at the ceiling in desperation, hating himself for being weak, for praying to a god who no longer cared. He shouted at him, swore, toppled furniture. He shot off two dozen rounds into a paper target, all the while cursing God, the scribe, and stupid fucking fallen angels like Naomi.

But he also thanked God for bringing Cas back to him. For getting him home.

Cas found him the next morning huddled in an armchair in the library, his leather jacket slung over his shoulders and an empty bottle lying on the floor next to his outstretched hand.


	2. Chapter 2

Cas spent the second day at the bunker sleeping in the soft, safe cocoon of Dean's bed. Well, maybe not so much sleeping as pretending to sleep. He found he didn't particularly like to sleep. He didn't like _needing_ to eat or sleep or shit. He hated the loss of control that sleeping brought.

He used to be able to govern his vessel. He could heal with the touch of his fingertips. He could travel through time. If his vessel felt hunger he could just push it aside. If his vessel felt sexual urges, no problem. Just forget about it. It doesn't matter. He is a wavelength of celestial intent, dammit. He didn't need to worry about it.

He _was_ a wavelength of celestial intent. The mundane, biological _human_ necessities used to be beneath him. Now they were just another part of his day. A bothersome, ridiculous, _time consuming_ part of his day, but a part nonetheless.

And that was another thing. Cas' concept of time has completely changed now that he has a finite amount of it left. He hated that he had to waste however long he had left doing things like showering, eating, brushing his teeth.

Dean drank himself to sleep the second night as well, passing out on the chesterfield in the library.

Cas spent the third day at the bunker watching television, curled up in a ball of self-pity and blankets on the couch. He refused to eat. He refused to move. He watched the tv but he didn't really take anything in. He forgot that he needed to blink now, only remembering when his eyes brimmed over with tears.

Dean wanted him to snap out of it, but short of kicking the shit out of him, Dean was at a loss as to how to get Cas to do it. He could only watch helplessly as Cas drifted further away from everyone around him, _especially_ Dean. He sometimes tolerated Kevin and Sam, but every time Dean approached where Cas had burrowed, he turned away, closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. Or he was curt and rude to him. Dean had forgotten how surly Cas could be.

So he drank. Because when he was shitfaced, he didn't have to worry about the fact that Cas was pulling away from him. Again. He didn't have to think about how much it _hurt_ that he was pulling away.

Then Cas fell asleep in Dean's bed, again, even though Dean had set up a room all for Cas just down the hall. Dean supposed he could have just crashed on Cas' bed and leave him be, but dammit, it was _his_ room. His bed. His damn _memory foam_ mattress. And he was going to sleep in it whether Cas liked it or not. And maybe it was because he was drunk. And pissed. Maybe Cas would get the message and get the hell out of his bed. Go to his own room.

So he stumbled over to his bed. He pulled off his jeans and flannel. And he pushed Cas over to his own side and pulled back the covers that were wrinkled because heaven forbid Cas make the bed in the morning.

He lay down on his side of the bed and feel asleep.

And in the morning, when he woke up with Castiel's arm wrapped around his middle and his legs tangled in his, he was so hung over and irritated he couldn't even be embarrassed that somehow in the middle of the night they had shifted. But he sure as hell wasn't going to say anything about it. Cas didn't say anything either.


	3. Chapter 3

Time plays funny tricks on memory.

He remembers what she looks like. Hell, he couldn't scrub his mother's face from his mind if he tried, but that had more to do with angel dicks screwing with time than actual _memory_. He knows the exact shade of her honey blonde hair and the deep, impossible blue of her eyes when she was angry. He'd committed to heart the way they turned into a soft green when she was happy, and the way they were almost brown in the evening sun, much like his own. But sometimes he can't remember the way 'Hey Ju-de' sounded on her lips when she sang him to sleep. He couldn't remember the way her fingers felt in his hair, or the way her perfume smelled in the sunshine.

He held onto what memories he had because if he let them slip away, even for a moment, it was as if she'd never existed; as if he'd never had any other life but hunting.

So he clung to the memory of her making him soup when he was sick, or the way she would twirl him around the room to the Beatles even though John hated that song, because it was _their_ song.

He woke up every morning determined to remember the way her fingers scraped against his wild curls on the last morning he'd ever had with her… the last perfect day of his life, when she'd taken him to the park, leaving Sammy with John for the afternoon. It was just the two of them, and she'd pushed him on the swing and played hide-and-seek with him.

He remembered when they came home, their cheeks red from the brisk November wind, and she had put on a pan of tomato rice soup, because it was "Just the thing to warm our souls, isn't it my little angel?" And he remembered feeling so loved, so safe, so comforted.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt that safe; maybe not since that cold afternoon in the kitchen as he sat beside the stove on the countertop, his bare feet swinging against the cabinet, watching intently as she chopped chicken and boiled rice.

So on the fourth day of Cas refusing to eat, Dean did the only thing he could think of.

He made soup. Try as he might however, he had never been able to make tomato rice soup taste as good as his memory of hers. But even if it didn't taste as good as he remembered, it always made him feel better.

Dean let the familiarity of the food overwhelm his senses, and distract him from his hangover. He didn't think about the fact that he woke up too warm, nauseous with a tangle of limbs wrapped around him in a way he hadn't had since his time with Lisa. He didn't think about the way the faint smell of lightning before a rainstorm enveloped him, making him dizzy. Or the fact that he had pulled away from Cas' comforting—no, _terrifying_—embrace and stumbled down the hall to throw up.

The heat of the steam rising out of the pot as he lifted the lid to stir grounded him. The smell of garlic and carrot and onion overwhelmed his senses. He chopped the chicken, added the rice. He spooned out a quick taste and cursed as it burned his tongue.

Apprehension was a near constant emotion for Dean, and standing in that kitchen, as the smells of home washed over him, worry sat like a weight in the pit of his stomach. Sam was _sick_, and he wasn't getting any better. He slept for days on end, still coughing up blood. His fever was almost always too high, but Sam refused the take the ice bath. And speaking of fever, he needed to stop by the grocery store to pick up some more Advil. Sam went through it like candy these days, not that it did any good.

Kevin spent his time locked up in his room, trying desperately to find a way to undo Metatron's spell. He'd stuck around after the fall, and Dean found he didn't mind it. He liked the nerd, and he felt responsible to him.

Crowley rotted away in the dungeon.

Charlie refused to come stay with them, citing that it was better for her to keep moving. But she still came to visit every few weeks. He didn't like that she was out there on her own. He wasn't kidding when he'd said he loved her. He hoped to be able to convince her to stay the next time she visited. He felt safer with her near him, within sight.

He sighed, pressing his fingers to his temple.

Dean had too many fingers plugging holes in the dam. And he didn't have it in him to try to hold one more damned thing together.

And Cas wouldn't _eat_.

He pushed away the Lucky Charms Dean had placed in front of him that morning. The night before he petulantly picked at the pork chop on his plate like it had personally offended him, cutting it up into miniscule pieces and mixing it around the mac n cheese and peas. In the end he was able to make it look like he'd eaten, but Dean had heard Cas' stomach rumbling later that night as he crawled drunkenly into his bed.

But today. Today dammit, Cas was going to eat.

He sat at the kitchen table as the soup simmered in the pot.

Spread out in front of him was a series of maps tracking Abbadon's movements. He wasn't sure what she was planning, and his intel was sketchy at best. But from what he could tell, she was heading east.

And since they had no way of killing her as of yet, both of his wingmen were catatonic and there was no way in hell he was going to take Kevin or Charlie with him on something this big, he decided that it was best that they just lay low for a while.

Abbadon can't find them here at the bunker. It was a perfect safe zone for him. And he was finding that he wanted to leave it less and less. He'd come across potential cases and brush them aside, sometimes he would pass them onto Garth, who had partially given up his duties and started passing off phone calls to him.

He scoffed at himself. He was becoming Bobby. The soup began to bubble behind him and he turned away from his research, pulling down a couple of bowls and ladling it out. He dropped off the first bowl in Sam's room. Sam was hunched over at his desk, a pile of research spread out around him, and Dean gently shook him awake. Sam thanked him, and absently brought a spoonful up to his mouth.

Dean waited until he was sure that Sam was going to eat his lunch before moving on to his room, where Cas was once again holed up. Dean wasn't sure why Cas had decided to entrench himself in his room, especially when he had his own bedroom right down the hall, but he wasn't sure how to bring it up without hurting his feelings. Dean liked having his own space. He liked having one place in the world that was entirely his.

And yet he found that he hadn't exactly complained when he woke up this morning feeling safe. He hadn't exactly _disliked_ someone inhabiting his space.

He took a deep breath before he opened the door, steeling himself for the fight he knew they were about to have.

Cas was curled up on his side, staring at the wall of weapons.

He was surrounded by blankets seemingly taken from all parts of the bunker, from the throw blanket from the library to the old quilt that Dean always kept in the backseat of Baby.

To Dean's consternation, he found a pile of dirty clothes in the corner of the room, and he was itching to pick them up and put them in the hamper. He knew it was textbook. And that his need to control his surroundings in this way was probably unhealthy, but he liked having his things in order.

It was one thing he could make sure that something wasn't behind his control. He can keep his world ordered, even if it was just in this tiny way. And Cas couldn't put his damn clothes in the hamper.

He tamped down the sudden flare of anger and placed the tray on top of the bedside table. He glanced over at the picture beneath the lamp. But it wasn't there. He sucked in a breath, panic welling up in the pit of his stomach.

Quickly he did a sweep of his room. Maybe he moved it without realizing it? He let his hands brush over the spot where his picture was supposed to be.

Then he glanced over at Cas. There, clutched in his fist was the picture, and Dean felt the panic dissipate as quickly as it had appeared. He reached out, and gently pulled the last piece of his mom he had left and he put it back in its place of honor beneath the lamp.

Cas watched his actions with blank eyes and said nothing.

Dean sat down next to him and pulled the bowl of soup off of the tray.

"Cas, I brought your lunch," he said, his voice seemed too loud in the room.

"I'm not hungry," Cas said.

"Liar," Dean picked up the spoon and scooped out a chunk of chicken and rice. "You're going to eat it." Cas' stomach growled and Dean smirked.

"I don't want it. Leave me alone Dean,"

Dean took a deep breath. "Dammit Cas, you're going whether you like it or not. I'm not gonna sit around and watch you waste away because you're too busy feeling sorry for yourself."

"I'm not feeling—" Dean cut off Cas' retort by pressing spoonful of soup into his mouth. Cas glared at him and swallowed the bite.

"Don't make me force feed you. I'll do it."

Cas looked up, and his eyes narrowed. For one second, he was the other worldly being that he'd met all those years ago. He was powerful. He wasn't the kicked puppy shell of a man wallowing in a heap of self-pity. His fist clenched, and he sat up abruptly. He pressed closer to Dean, invading his personal space again.

"You and what army?" Cas whispered, dangerous and steely.

Dean almost backed away. Almost.

He let his eyes soften for the briefest moment. "C'mon Cas, just eat it."

"I told you—"

"—you're not hungry. And you're a liar. So please, _please_, just fucking eat it."

Without realizing it, Cas softened. Dean sounded so defeated, so overwhelmed. He reached out and took the spoon from him, dropping it into the bowl and scooping out another bite.

He ate slowly, worried about getting sick; even though his hunger had returned in full force at the second bite of the savory soup. He felt Dean relax next to him as he watched him eat. His entire body softened, his posture relaxed and his eyes were no longer cold and angry.

"Thank you," Dean whispered to him. He stood then, placing the tray on the bed next to Cas and quickly walked to the door. He turned right before he left, "Eat all of it," he warned before closing the door behind him.

Cas took a few more bites before the emptiness set in again, filling him up and making his stomach turn at the sight of the warm comforting soup before him.

He pushed the bowl away half full.

Dean found it that way an hour later. Cas pretended to sleep as Dean watched over him for a moment. He could practically feel Dean's disappointment radiating off of him in waves.

But neither of them said anything. Dean just picked up the tray and left him alone.


End file.
